by M. R. James
And with that Squire Martin gave a sort of a cry or a shout and ran out of the house into the dark, and I felt the cupboard door pushed out against me while I held it, and Thomas Snell helped me: but for all we pressed to keep it shut as hard as we could, it was forced out against us, and we had to fall back.
L.C.J.: And pray what came out—a mouse?
S.: No, my lord, it was greater than a mouse, but I could not see what it was: it fleeted very swift over the floor and out at the door.
L.C.J.: But come; what did it look like? Was it a person?
S.: My lord, I cannot tell what it was, but it ran very low, and it was of a dark color. We were both daunted by it, Thomas Snell and I, but we made all the haste we could after it to the door that stood open. And we looked out, but it was dark and we could see nothing.
L.C.J.: Was there no tracks of it on the floor? What floor have you there?
S.: It is a flagged floor and sanded, my lord, and there was an appearance of a wet track on the floor, but we could make nothing of it, neither Thomas Snell nor me, and besides, as I said, it was a foul night.
L.C.J.: Well, for my part, I see not—though to be sure it is an odd tale she tells—what you would do with this evidence.
Att-Gen.: My lord, we bring it to show the suspicious carriage of the prisoner immediately after the disappearance of the murdered person: and we ask the jury’s consideration of that; and also to the matter of the voice heard without the house.
Then the prisoner asked some questions not very material, and Thomas Snell was next called, who gave evidence to the same effect as Mrs. Arscott, and added the following:
Att-Gen.: Did anything pass between you and the prisoner during the time Mrs. Arscott was out of the room?
Th.: I had a piece of twist in my pocket.
Att-Gen.: Twist of what?
Th.: Twist of tobacco, sir, and I felt a disposition to take a pipe of tobacco. So I found a pipe on the chimney-piece, and being it was twist, and in regard of me having by an oversight left my knife at my house, and me not having over many teeth to pluck at it, as your lordship or anyone else may have a view by their own eyesight—
L.C.J.: What is the man talking about? Come to the matter, fellow! Do you think we sit here to look at your teeth?
Th.: No, my lord, nor I would not you should do, God forbid! I know your honors have better employment, and better teeth, I would not wonder.
L.C.J.: Good God, what a man is this! Yes, I have better teeth, and that you shall find if you keep not to the purpose.
Th.: I humbly ask pardon, my lord, but so it was. And I took upon me, thinking no harm, to ask Squire Martin to lend me his knife to cut my tobacco.
And he felt first of one pocket and then of another and it was not there at all. And says I, “What! Have you lost your knife, Squire?” And up he gets and feels again and he sat down, and such a groan as he gave. “Good God!” he says, “I must have left it there.” “But,” says I, “Squire, by all appearance it is not there. Did you set a value on it,” says I, “you might have it cried.”
But he sat there and put his head between his hands and seemed to take no notice to what I said. And then it was Mistress Arscott come tracking back out of the kitchen place.
Asked if he heard the voice singing outside the house, he said “No,” but the door into the kitchen was shut, and there was a high wind: but says that no one could mistake Ann Clark’s voice.
Then a boy, William Reddaway, about thirteen years of age, was called, and by the usual questions, put by the Lord Chief Justice, it was ascertained that he knew the nature of an oath. And so he was sworn. His evidence referred to a time about a week later.
Att-Gen.: Now, child, don’t be frighted: there is no one here will hurt you if you speak the truth.
L.C.J.: Ay, if he speak the truth. But remember, child, thou art in the presence of the great God of Heaven and Earth, that hath the keys of Hell, and of us that are the king’s officers, and have the keys of Newgate; and remember, too, there is a man’s life in question. And if thou tellest a lie, and by that means he comes to an ill end, thou art no better than his murderer. And so speak the truth.
Att-Gen.: Tell the jury what you know, and speak out. Where were you on the evening of the 23rd of May last?
L.C.J.: Why, what does such a boy as this know of days. Can you mark the day, boy?
W.: Yes, my lord, it was the day before our feast, and I was to spend sixpence there, and that falls a month before Midsummer Day.
One of the Jury: My lord, we cannot hear what he says.
L.C.J.: He says he remembers the day because it was the day before the feast they had there, and he had sixpence to lay out. Set him upon the table there. Well, child, and where wast thou then?
W.: Keeping cows on the moor, my lord.
But, the boy using the country speech, my lord could not well apprehend him, and so asked if there was anyone that could interpret him, and it was answered the parson of the parish was there, and he was accordingly sworn and so the evidence given. The boy said:
“I was on the moor about six o’clock, and sitting behind a bush of furze near a pond of water: and the prisoner came very cautiously and looking about him, having something like a long pole in his hand, and stopped a good while as if he would be listening, and then began to feel in the water with the pole: and I being very near the water—not above five yards—heard as if the pole struck up against something that made a wallowing sound, and the prisoner dropped the pole and threw himself on the ground, and rolled himself about very strangely with his hands to his ears, and so after a while got up and went creeping away.”
Asked if he had had any communication with the prisoner: “Yes, a day or two before, the prisoner, hearing I was used to be on the moor, he asked me if I had seen a knife laying about, and said he would give sixpence to find it. And I said I had not seen any such thing, but I would ask about. Then he said he would give me sixpence to say nothing, and so he did.”
L.C.J.: And was that the sixpence you were to lay out at the feast?
W.: Yes, if you please, my lord.
Asked if he had observed anything particular as to the pond of water, he said, “No, except that it begun to have a very ill smell and the cows would not drink of it for some days before.”
Asked if he had ever seen the prisoner and Ann Clark in company together, he began to cry very much, and it was a long time before they could get him to speak intelligibly.
At last the parson of the parish, Mr. Matthews, got him to be quiet, and the question being put to him again, he said he had seen Ann Clark waiting on the moor for the prisoner at some way off, several times since last Christmas.
Att-Gen.: Did you see her close, so as to be sure it was she?
W.: Yes, quite sure.
L.C.J.: How quite sure, child?
W.: Because she would stand and jump up and down and clap her arms like a goose (which he called by some country name: but the parson explained it to be a goose).
And then she was of such a shape that it could not be no one else.
Att-Gen.: What was the last time that you so saw her?
Then the witness began to cry again and clung very much to Mr. Matthews, who bid him not be frightened.
And so at last he told this story: that on the day before their feast (being the same evening that he had before spoken of) after the prisoner had gone away, it being then twilight and he very desirous to get home, but afraid for the present to stir from where he was lest the prisoner should see him, remained some few minutes behind the bush, looking on the pond, and saw something dark come up out of the water at the edge of the pond farthest away from him, and so up the bank.
And when it got to the top where he could see it plain against the sky, it stood up and flapped the arms up and down, and then run off very swiftly in the same direction the prisoner had taken. And being asked very strictly who he took it to be, he said upon his oath that it could be nobody but Ann Clark.
Thereafter his master was called, and gave evidence that the boy had come home very late that evening and been chided for it, and that he seemed very much amazed, but could give no account of the reason.
Att-Gen.: My lord, we have done with our evidence for the King.
Then the Lord Chief Justice called upon the prisoner to make his defense; which he did, though at no great length, and in a very halting way, saying that he hoped the jury would not go about to take his life on the evidence of a parcel of country people and children that would believe any idle tale, and that he had been very much prejudiced in his trial; at which the L.C.J. interrupted him, saying that he had had singular favor shown to him in having his trial removed from Exeter, which the prisoner acknowledging, said that he meant rather that since he was brought to London there had not been care taken to keep him secured from interruption and disturbance.
Upon which the L.C.J. ordered the Marshal to be called, and questioned him about the safekeeping of the prisoner, but could find nothing: except the Marshal said that he had been informed by the underkeeper that they had seen a person outside his door or going up the stairs to it: but there was no possibility the person should have got in.
And it being inquired further what sort of person this might be, the Marshal could not speak to it save by hearsay, which was not allowed.
And the prisoner, being asked if this was what he meant, said no, he knew nothing of that, but it was very hard that a man should not be suffered to be at quiet when his life stood on it.
But it was observed he was very hasty in his denial. And so he said no more, and called no witnesses.
Whereupon the Attorney-General spoke to the jury.
[A full report of what he said is given, and, if time allowed, I would extract that portion in which he dwells on the alleged appearance of the murdered person: he quotes some authorities of ancient date, as St. Augustine de cura pro mortuis gerenda (a favorite book of reference with the old writers on the supernatural) and also cites some cases which may be seen in Glanvil’s, but more conveniently in Mr. Lang’s books. He does not, however, tell us more of those cases than is to be found in print.]
The Lord Chief Justice then summed up the evidence for the jury.
His speech, again, contains nothing that I find worth copying out: but he was naturally impressed with the singular character of the evidence, saying that he had never heard such given in his experience; but that there was nothing in law to set it aside, and that the jury must consider whether they believed these witnesses or not.
And the jury after a very short consultation brought the prisoner in Guilty.
So he was asked whether he had anything to say in arrest of judgment, and pleaded that his name was spelled wrong in the indictment, being Martin with an I, whereas it should be with a Y.
But this was overruled as not material, Mr. Attorney saying, moreover, that he could bring evidence to show that the prisoner by times wrote it as it was laid in the indictment.
And, the prisoner having nothing further to offer, sentence of death was passed upon him, and that he should be hanged in chains upon a gibbet near the place where the fact was committed, and that execution should take place upon the 28th December next ensuing, being Innocents’ Day.
Thereafter the prisoner being to all appearance in a state of desperation, made shift to ask the L.C.J. that his relations might be allowed to come to him during the short time he had to live.
L.C.J.: Ay, with all my heart, so it be in the presence of the keeper; and Ann Clark may come to you as well, for what I care.
At which the prisoner broke out and cried to his lordship not to use such words to him, and his lordship very angrily told him he deserved no tenderness at any man’s hands for a cowardly butcherly murderer that had not the stomach to take the reward of his deeds: “And I hope to God,” said he, “that she will be with you by day and by night till an end is made of you.”
Then the prisoner was removed, and, so far as I saw, he was in a swoon, and the Court broke up.
I cannot refrain from observing that the prisoner during all the time of the trial seemed to be more uneasy than is commonly the case even in capital causes: that, for example, he was looking narrowly among the people and often turning around very sharply, as if some person might be at his ear.
It was also very noticeable at this trial what a silence the people kept, and further (though this might not be otherwise than natural in that season of the year), what a darkness and obscurity there was in the court room, lights being brought in not long after two o’clock in the day, and yet no fog in the town.
It was not without interest that I heard lately from some young men who had been giving a concert in the village I speak of, that a very cold reception was accorded to the song which has been mentioned in this narrative: “Madam, Will You Walk?”
It came out in some talk they had next morning with some of the local people that that song was regarded with an invincible repugnance; it was not so, they believed, at North Tawton, but here it was reckoned to be unlucky.
However, why that view was taken no one had the shadow of an idea.
Mr. Humphreys and
His Inheritance
ABOUT FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, on a date late in August or early in September, a train drew up at Wilsthorpe, a country station in Eastern England.
Out of it stepped (with other passengers) a rather tall and reasonably good-looking young man, carrying a handbag and some papers tied up in a packet. He was expecting to be met, one would say, from the way in which he looked about him: and he was, as obviously, expected.
The stationmaster ran forward a step or two, and then, seeming to recollect himself, turned and beckoned to a stout and consequential person with a short round beard who was scanning the train with some appearance of bewilderment.
“Mr. Cooper,” he called out. “Mr. Cooper, I think this is your gentleman.” And then to the passenger who had just alighted: “Mr. Humphreys, sir? Glad to bid you welcome to Wilsthorpe. There’s a cart from the Hall for your luggage, and here’s Mr. Cooper, what I think you know.”
Mr. Cooper had hurried up, and now raised his hat and shook hands. “Very pleased, I’m sure,” he said, “to give the echo to Mr. Palmer’s kind words. I should have been the first to render expression to them but for the face not being familiar to me, Mr. Humphreys. May your residence among us be marked as a red-letter day, sir.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Cooper,” said Humphreys, “for your good wishes, and Mr. Palmer also. I do hope very much that this change of—er—tenancy—which you must all regret, I am sure—will not be to the detriment of those with whom I shall be brought in contact.”
He stopped, feeling that the words were not fitting themselves together in the happiest way, and Mr. Cooper cut in, “Oh, you may rest satisfied of that, Mr. Humphreys. I’ll take it upon myself to assure you, sir, that a warm welcome awaits you on all sides. And as to any change of propriety turning out detrimental to the neighborhood, well, your late uncle—”
And here Mr. Cooper also stopped, possibly in obedience to an inner monitor, possibly because Mr. Palmer, clearing his throat loudly, asked Humphreys for his ticket.
The two men left the little station, and—at Humphreys’ suggestion—decided to walk to Mr. Cooper’s house, where luncheon was awaiting them.
The relation in which these personages stood to each other can be explained in a very few lines.
Humphreys had inherited—quite unexpectedly—a property from an uncle: neither the property nor the uncle had he ever seen. He was alone in the world—a man of good ability and kindly nature, whose employment in a Government office for the last four or five years had not gone far to fit him for the life of a country gentleman. He was studious and rather diffident, and had few out-of-door pursuits except golf and gardening.
Today he had come down for the first time to visit Wilsthorpe and confer with Mr. Cooper, the bailiff, as to the matters which needed immediate atte
ntion.
It may be asked how this came to be his first visit? Ought he not in decency to have attended his uncle’s funeral? The answer is not far to seek: he had been abroad at the time of the death, and his address had not been at once procurable. So he had put off coming to Wilsthorpe till he heard that all things were ready for him.
And now we find him arrived at Mr. Cooper’s comfortable house, facing the parsonage, and having just shaken hands with the smiling Mrs. and Miss Cooper.
During the minutes that preceded the announcement of luncheon the party settled themselves on elaborate chairs in the drawing room, Humphreys, for his part, perspiring quietly in the consciousness that stock was being taken of him.
“I was just saying to Mr. Humphreys, my dear,” said Mr. Cooper, “that I hope and trust that his residence among us here in Wilsthorpe will be marked as a red-letter day.”
“Yes, indeed, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Cooper heartily, “and many, many of them.”
Miss Cooper murmured words to the same effect, and Humphreys attempted a pleasantry about painting the whole calendar red, which, though greeted with shrill laughter, was evidently not fully understood. At this point they proceeded to luncheon.
“Do you know this part of the country at all, Mr. Humphreys?” said Mrs. Cooper, after a short interval. This was a better opening.
“No, I’m sorry to say I do not,” said Humphreys. “It seems very pleasant, what I could see of it coming down in the train.”
“Oh, it is a pleasant part. Really, I sometimes say I don’t know a nicer district, for the country; and the people around, too: such a quantity always going on. But I’m afraid you’ve come a little late for some of the better garden parties, Mr. Humphreys.”
“I suppose I have. Dear me, what a pity!” said Humphreys, with a gleam of relief. And then, feeling that something more could be got out of this topic, “But after all, you see, Mrs. Cooper, even if I could have been here earlier, I should have been cut off from them, should I not? My poor uncle’s recent death, you know—”